


permanent markers

by Areiton



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Tattoos, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, this is actually a really happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Sometimes, when he’s staring at new street art that’s sprung up, he wonders why it’s always the faceplate.Why it’s never,neverthe arc reactor.He thinks maybe it’s because Iron Man belonged to the world, and the arc reactor--that was easy to overlook in the face of the armor, and the imposing mask.But that’s always been how the world treated Tony--the man was overlooked for the masks he wore.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 213





	permanent markers

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH! I am squeaking in under the wire, happy birthday Tony Stark!

It’s the memorials, that triggers it. 

Everywhere he goes, there’s the faceplate, Iron Man staring back at him, and it’s as painful as it is comforting. Karen doesn’t even ask about the spike in his heartbeat, when he swings past the familiar red and gold graffiti. 

Sometimes, when he’s staring at a new memorial that’s sprung up, he wonders why it’s always the faceplate. 

Why it’s never,  _ never _ the arc reactor. 

He thinks maybe it’s because Iron Man belonged to the world, and the arc reactor--that was easy to overlook in the face of the armor, and the imposing mask. 

But that’s always been how the world treated Tony--the man was overlooked for the masks he wore. 

The thing about the memorials is--they’re so temporal. Most are flowers scattered around the city, candles burning near street art. They last, a few days, before they’re cleared away, scrubbed down,  _ removed _ . 

There’s the memorial in Central Park, and at the foot of the Tower--the one to Mr. Stark and Cap and Natasha. 

But the ones from the people, the ones that he sees, that  _ haunt  _ him--those never last. 

And he wants something that  _ lasts.  _

~*~ 

Johnny, it turns out, knows a guy. 

Not a guy that can make it work, but that can do the basics, no questions asked. 

Peter spends a week solid in the lab, trusts that Johnny will keep an eye on Queens, and when he emerges, he’s trembling, and giddy and there’s four new memorials up, scattered through the city as he swings through. He wonders how long they’ll last this time. 

When it first happened--the months right after the Return, when he could barely  _ breathe  _ through the giddy relief of living and the bone crushing  _ grief-- _ there had been new memorials almost every hour. The city was a constantly changing canvas, and Iron Man--Iron Man stared back, grim and impassive and beloved. 

Now--almost two years after the Return, after the world has pulled itself back together and  _ healed _ \--they come less frequently. 

Still. 

People haven’t forgotten. 

Even when the memorials are wiped away--people haven’t forgotten. 

~*~ 

“Can you use this?” he asks, and places the vials down on the table, tiny clinks of glass on mental. Johnny makes a quiet, curious noise, and the guy peers at Peter. 

“Sure, kid,” he says, a smirk turning up his lips. 

Peter smiles, and leans back against the chair, his wrist tilted up and bare. 

When the needle bites into his skin, he exhales, and some of the tension in his belly goes loose and sweet and confident. 

~*~ 

“Why not the faceplate?” Johnny asks, later. They’re eating hotdogs and walking through the streets and his wrist throbs, a faint ache that reminds him it’s real. It’s permanent. 

“Because Mr. Stark wasn’t just his mask,” Peter says and Johnny frowns at him. 

Peter smiles, leans over and kisses him quick and easy, and says, “Will you finish patrolling this week?” 

Johnny makes a face, but catches his hand. “Yeah, babe. Whatever you need.” 

~*~ 

The drive used to bother him. It’s two hours north of the Compound, a good three hours outside the city, and it used to grate, every long moment of dread and anticipation. Now--now it’s familiar, almost soothing, and he settles, deeper into his own skin, the further he drives. 

It’s dark, when he finally pulls up to the lakeside cabin. Gerald blinks at him from his little lean-to, and the lights glow, a faint warm welcome. 

“You’re late,” a familiar voice calls and his heart does that thing, the same one it does when he sees those memorials scattered through the city. 

A tumble, a lurch of remembered grief and fear, cascading into bright hot relief and joy. 

Because this is the truth--there are memorials and monuments for a man who died to save the world. 

And the truth is this--he  _ didn’t. _

Against all odds--he lived. 

Tony Stark lived. Iron Man--Iron Man died. 

Peter thinks he can live with that, even if the rest of the world still mourns. 

“You waitin’ up for me, old man?” Peter teases and Mr. Stark laughs, a faint huff in the darkness. He comes closer and smiles at Mr. Stark. “Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.” 

“You haven’t been patrolling,” he says, instead of denying what they both know to be true, or addressing the reason for this weekend’s visit. 

“Was working on a project,” Peter says, and rubs a finger over his wrist. 

Mr. Stark waits, and Peter comes across the porch, sitting next to him and presenting his arm, wrist bare and visible. 

He’s close enough that he can feel the hitch in Mr. Stark’s breathing. He’s close enough that Tony doesn’t try to hide it. 

“Kid,” he breathes. 

It’s simple. Delicate lines in arc reactor blue, shaping the heart of him. And scrawled, messy but distinct, that familiar handwriting that Peter adores-- 

_ Be Better.  _

“They still put up your faceplate, in the city,” he says. “And then they’re gone--memorials wiped away like dust.” 

Tony’s arm comes around him and even though he’s too old for this, he burrows into him. His words press against Tony’s side. “You’re not just the mask the world sees, Mr. Stark. And no one can wipe this away.” 

He knows. He’s been trying for days, and each time it doesn’t smudge or fade, relief sings in his veins. 

A metal finger brushes over his skin now, hard enough that it hurts, a little, but the ink stays put. 

“How?” 

“Synthesized a special ink. Gave myself a low dose of that virus that knocked Bucky on his ass last summer, the one they found in Zemo’s place?” Peter shrugs. 

Mr. Stark isn’t breathing. “You deliberately infected yourself and then permanently modified your body?” he says, his voice very precise. 

Peter blinks at him. 

“Jesus  _ christ, _ Pete.” 

“Tony, you literally put experimental tech in your chest.  _ And  _ Extremis, ok, that was pretty body altering,” he says. “And Steve--”

“Why am I being brought into this?” Steve asks from the doorway and Peter grins at him. 

“No more tattoos,” Tony says, decisively. 

“Maybe one more,” Peter says. “For May.” 

Tony’s eyes soften, and he squeezes Peter close, and Peter leans against him, the soft blue glow of the arc reactor lighting the corner of the porch, settling him in his skin, reminding him--he’s home. 


End file.
